


The Collected Primarch Calendar

by UnderTheFridge



Series: The Pimperium of Mankind AU [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Adult Content, Emps has Good Ideas, Gen, Nude Photos, Porn, involving Naked Primarchs, literally all of them - Freeform, that's it that's the entire plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: The Emperor of Mankind has His best idea yet: to further the reach of humanity in a crusade across the stars.That's not the good idea - the good idea is to fund said crusades with a naked calendar featuring everyone's favourite genehanced demigods.(And Malcador, if he's up for it.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Blame this on sisterofsilence, sabbatine, tzeentchgodofchange, pholcidae, syberfab, and others I may have forgotten, aka the Fluffy Underbelly....

“I’ve been thinking,” the Emperor said. A sentence that Malcador, by now, always thought would inspire hope in him, enthusiasm even. But he was filled with a sense of dread, as ever. Some things would never change.

“I should extend the primarch project. Have more of them.”

“My lord…” Malcador looked up from a sales report. _Orbital Bombardment III_ and the _Lingerie Lodge Meeting_ _artbook_ doing well. “Is this about the calendar?”

“I… yes, if I’m honest. But bear with me - I just thought, if there were twenty-four, then two per month. Or two calendars. Eighteen - nineteen - is such an awkward number, you know?”

“Why don’t you just cull them?” Malcador offered, turning back to the report. Surprise success for  _ Mechanicum - Tentacular Martian Adventures _ ; most of the reviews in binary. 98% of marketing survey respondents saying that they had discovered the ‘hidden’ POV footage. “You’ve had no trouble doing that in the past.”

The Emperor looked hurt. “Malc, you know I can’t….”

“Or just use your Imperial decree to make the standard year comprise eighteen months. What? Don’t give me that look. Both of those suggestions are just as sensible as yours. You’d fire up the cloning tank and risk Warp intrusion again for the sake of a naked calendar?”

The Emperor folded his arms. Malcador put his papers down.

“Don’t tell me you would. Don’t say that.”

“But -.”

“My lord, you can’t justify the end. Find another way of doing it. I’m sure some of them will refuse - or couples. Everyone likes couples.”

“I’ll think about it,” the Emperor conceded, making some mental notes.

\--

“Don’t go in Magnus’s room,” Vulkan said, reaching out to stop his brother. “There’s no gravity in there. I don’t know how he did it, but he did. And there’s books flying around.”

“What?” Lorgar took a step back and tugged at the collar of his robe. “He said he wouldn’t! That’s unfair! Books were meant to be  _ my _ thing….”

“Well, apparently now you’ve got one of those thingies. You know, the thingies they have incense in. Round your waist, and it dangles just so.” He pointed at Lorgar’s crotch. “Plus the smoke.”

“A censer, Vulkan.”

“Yes, it’ll cover everything.”

_ Lorgar standing in a chapel, before the altar, arms outreached in supplication. A ray of holy light from above, making his tattoos shimmer. His monastic robe open, falling to the sides - and the all-important censer, as Vulkan predicted, hanging in front of the necessary parts. Soft streams of smoke from its openings, giving the impression that his loins are quite literally afire. _

_ Vulkan posing on the anvil, sitting astride it with his legs spread generously. Glistening sweat on his skin - actually water, applied by a nervous attendant. The furnace burns in here, but it’s nowhere near hot enough to trouble a primarch. A hammer and tongs across his lap, hiding the ‘drake’s tail’, as he jokingly calls it. Nobody can quite bring themselves not to stare. _

_[Magnus ](http://tzeentchgodofchange.tumblr.com/post/119601851700/that-magnus-idea-is-too-good-have-a-5-sec-doodle)in mid-air - quite the challenge for the photography team - with the books surrounding him. One riffles its pages open and poses primly in front of his hips, daring anyone to try and sneak a look past. ‘Hang on,’ Magnus says, ‘Some of these have got pretty explicit illustrations. I’ll get those out of the picture.’ More volumes fly off the shelves; half his library is floating around the chamber and he doesn’t even seem to notice. His single eye is luminous, inviting the viewer with promises of hidden secrets. (Lorgar thinks he’s overdoing it a bit. Especially the hair.) _

\--

“Can’t you just add the background in later?” A gentle breeze ruffled feathers and stirred sand from the ground in tiny eddies around the primarch’s feet.

“I’m quite sure we can’t, my lord. The Emperor was very clear about it.”

“Hm.” Sanguinius rested his hands on his hips and stared out over the desert beyond. “Well, the view is lovely.”

“The view is gorgeous,” Horus agreed from behind him.

“We’re here to work, you know.”

“As long as the ‘work’ involves you walking around naked, I’m not going to object.”

The angel smiled and turned to punch him lightly on the arm.

_ Sanguinius on top of a desert plateau, the sunlight baking everything stark and pale. Kneeling on one knee, back arched slightly (positioned by Horus’s ever-careful hands) to show off his muscles to the best degree. ‘Especially these,’ Horus says, patting his backside. Wings spread, proud and glorious in the sun, hair in lustrous rivers down to the base of his shoulders. He wants to see the pictures, out of the tiniest bit of vanity, but has to stay still until they’re done. A glance sideways at Horus’s face tells him almost everything he needs to know. _

_ Horus, on his flagship, seated on the throne as if he owns the place - which he does. Legion banners on the walls; trophies of war; weapons new and old. He wears only a smirk and a section of wolf pelt. The skin of the creature, compared to his primarch frame, looks more like a medium-sized dog. Its teeth snarl over ‘little Horus’ - not that one. The other ‘little Horus’. Very few people know he calls it that. The throne room is relatively dark, and the pictures make the shadows deeper still, and the Warmaster’s skin a rich bronze, lit by firelight and radiant with power. _

\--

“For the good of the Imperium.”

“That’s it.” Roboute put a hand on his shoulder. “Now keep telling yourself that, and pass me that bottle.”

“For the good of the Imperium,” Dorn muttered again, and reached for a towel. He turned away resolutely as Guilliman oiled himself. “What’s the power fist for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Roboute winked at him, then noticed his horrified expression. “Oh, Rogal. I’m sorry. It was a joke.” He offered a gauntlet-clad hand. “It’s to… do the necessary concealment. So that people can have it on their walls, I imagine, without fear of outrage.”

_ One loosely curled fist of blue and gold raking backwards through his hair, the other (much larger) resting coyly between his legs. A laurel wreath cast aside on the floor, robes of state draped half-over the couch where he lies, as if his clothing has suffered a sudden and catastrophic malfunction and simply abandoned his body. It’s all tactically arranged, every single piece. Even the backdrop of rich neo-Classical sculpture and drapes. The statues aren’t a patch on him.  _

_ The frown on his face is mostly consternation, but some artful photography - plus a few whispered words of encouragement from his fellow primarch - make it look more like studious thought. The scaled-down battlefield arrayed in front of him; positions of attack and defence that he surveys with piercing gaze, leaning over the table, fists planted on its edge. A tiny rampart obscures his privates, and the tiny defenders atop the wall appear to be gazing in wonder. _

“I’m not standing there with  _ him _ . We’re naked! Everyone will be comparing us. It’s a preposterous showpiece and I want no part of it.”

“But you built the table -.”

“They can have it. He can have it. I don’t care.”

“Very well.” Roboute shrugged, wishing he wasn’t having this conversation dressed only in gauntlets and body glitter. “You’ve every right not to care. And if I’m honest, I’m tired of mediating. Leave, and he’ll have his month alone on the walls of Imperial citizens.”

Perturabo clutched the towel around his waist and scowled at the floor. But he stayed.

_ Perturabo has nothing but determination in his expression, and he’s looking right at Dorn. His muscles are bunched, his posture more warlike. He is the aggressor, in this contest of wits - he is the one assaulting Dorn’s fortress, hoping to pin him down and overpower him. A miniature siege engine rises tall from the field, frozen in its inexorable crawl towards the fortress gates and also in the perfect position to preserve his modesty. If he were to make a move, he could easily run it forward and demolish the rampart, exposing both of them to the world. The tension made by that fact, and other things, hangs in the air. _

\--

“Is it… big enough, do you think?”

“It’s plenty big enough,” the Emperor responded firmly. “I should know. I made that, and it’s one of my proudest achievements. Just look at it. Majestic. You could hang a banner from that -.”

“Not that!” Horus interrupted in a loud panic. “Father, please. The axe. The pair of axes. Not his….”

“Oh.” The Emperor halted mid-soliloquy. “Yes, I imagine so. If they’re positioned carefully.”

“And you’re  _ sure _ he’s not going to suddenly decide to use them?”

“Fairly sure. That would be your problem, anyway.” He slapped the Warmaster’s shoulder and wandered off.

_ Angron, with a grin that appears knowing and challenging at the same time, reclining on a scrub-covered hillside (his choice of scenery; it makes him feel freer), arms behind his head. Gorefather and Gorechild propped with the blades between his thighs, cutting edges dangerously close to skin. He’s proud of his weapons, proud of his scars, and it shows. Nobody could think him ugly, seeing him like this. And the axe-heads are indeed just about large enough to cover the Emperor’s finest work. Horus wonders if an uncensored version will ever be available. _

\--

“They’re dangerous animals, the pair of them.”

“They aren’t dangerous,” Russ defended, petting a wolf. “You have to get to know them.”

“I meant you two.” Malcador eyed the Wolf Lord, who simply grunted, settled down on the furs and let the creature lick his chin.

“Is this really what they look like on Terra? This is nothing like a Calibanite beast. It has teeth, and claws… but that’s about all.”

“Just relax,” Russ said, which El’Jonson seemed to take as a personal insult. “It’s what the people want. Call yourself Lion, when you’ve never even seen one?”

_ Russ on one side, with two wolves draped across his lap - he insists that both of them should be in the picture, otherwise one would become jealous. It’s quite hard to tell where wolf ends and primarch begins. He scratches the head of one lazily, the three of them almost dozing off with the comfort of the furs and the heat of the lights. Refusing to awaken at all for the picture, the end result is languid and lethargic, eyelids lowered, a pack leader in his den. _

_ Lion on the other, with the beast that - apparently - lent him his name similarly tame by his side. It takes a lot of persuading for both the lions to co-operate; the animal won’t stretch out across his loins, but deigns to rest a massive paw in polite censorship. If the primarch is worried about the claws coming unsheathed so close to his vital areas, he doesn’t show it. His deep green eyes are alert and keen and, propped on his elbows, he is a hundred times more ready to pounce than the sleepy Russ. _

\--

“That’s not traditional Chemosan glassware. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling.”

“Hush, Ferrus - nobody will know. Besides, it’s beautiful. And the right shape to cover everything. And the perfect colour.”

“How come I’m stuck with the grubby half of the set?”

“It’s not  _ grubby, _ Ferrus. It’s an industrial aesthetic. The two halves are a contrast. You’ve been introduced to the idea of contrast, surely?”

“Yes. I find those whose views contrast those of the Imperium, and crush their skulls with a hammer.”

“You’re such a  _ brute _ .” But this was said in a tone close to admiration.

_ Ferrus in the gloomy metal and stone of the ‘industrial’ top half, standing before the anvil. The shaft of Forgebreaker in front of him, his hands resting over the end, elbows out for an air of strength and confidence - and to show off his rippling silver skin. The head of the hammer rests on the anvil, drawing the viewer’s gaze to it and suggesting somehow that his own ‘shaft’ equally extends all the way down. His eyes gleam in the low light and his face is as if carved from rock. Some might call it ‘sullen’, but others would know ‘commanding’ when they saw it. _

_ Fulgrim forms the bottom of the set, the harsh edges of the forge bleeding into soft swathes of delicate fabric. He lies on his side, long legs extended, the curves of his body and of his smile inviting where Ferrus’s warn to keep your distance. The ‘non-traditional’ glassware fills the same role as Forgebreaker, opalescent colours like oil swirling on the surface. If one looks closely, Ferrus claims, inspecting the picture, one can almost see that the vessel is too translucent to properly do its job…. Fulgrim laughs at that and says that Ferrus should spend less time with his nose an inch away from a fellow primarch’s loins. _

\--

“They hate each other!”

“It’s a difference of opinion, actually. Could hardly be described as personal.”

“But you’re still sticking them on the same page and leaving me to mediate?”

The Emperor had wandered off again. Horus growled in frustration. The birds clattered in their cages and the horses shifted and stamped. Corax was in one corner, perched on a chair like a moody parrot. Jaghatai was striding around naked between the horses, declaring most of them unfit to be photographed beside him. Never work with children or animals, Horus thought. Or primarchs - who were apparently a mixture of both.

_ The pommel of the saddle is sufficient coverage for the Khan, which is a surprise - he has more in common with the horses than anyone thought. He clutches the reins in one hand, the other on his hip. He stares past the photographer to the plains beyond, dark storm clouds massing in the sky at his back. He is at one with the wilderness stretching around, and his topknot flows in the wind. _

_ Corax stands in a bent and twisted tree behind, having run out of energy to argue the stylistic decisions. He wears a black cloak, the edges of it lifted by the breeze into the rough suggestion of wings. Jaghatai’s head comes to the level of his navel. A raven is poised to land on one outstretched hand. As the picture is taken, lightning strikes from the clouds in the background, and its jagged white streaks make the gathering storm look even darker. _

\--

“I told them I wouldn’t do it unless you did it too.”

“And the Emperor listened to you? That’s a surprise.”

“He did. But I never thought you’d say yes. That wasn’t the plan.”

“Well.” Konrad kicked at a skull, disappointed to find that it wasn’t real. “I think you’re handsome enough. And we can’t let down our fans in the Imperium.”

“They’re sick bastards,” Mortarion declared, retrieving the skull from under Curze’s foot and weighing it in his hand. “One of them sent me  _ her own finger _ . I don’t know what she wanted me to do with it….”

_ Curze atop a rain-lashed and ruined rooftop, crouching like a grotesque with his hair hanging in his face. The water streams across his skin, finding shallow channels between ribs and vertebrae. He’s thin and gaunt, a pale spectre of death with one knee drawn up for the sake of dignity - but his expression suggests that he’ll move it away at any moment. Exposure doesn’t concern him. Lust laid bare is part of the human condition. _

_ Mortarion stands vigil under the eaves, his mighty scythe held down across his stomach. He is hooded in the fashion of a grim reaper, and an open robe almost swallows his slender body in its dark depths. His face is hardly visible, which he privately considers to be a good thing. The moonlit water running from the roof frames him with strands of silver, and strikes the ground to dissipate into a fine mist around his feet. _

\--

“Perfect,” the Emperor flipped the glossy pages, occasionally holding one up for closer inspection. “Absolutely perfect. Say, Malc - you don’t think this hookah is a bit much?”

“That’s no way to talk about your son, my lord.”

“But it’s almost transparent.”

“He can’t help being that col- oh, I see what you mean. No, it’ll be fine. But I think we have a problem.” The Sigillite rested his arm on a pile of boxes, scrutinising Horus’s page.

“What’s that?”

“Look here.” He pointed a bony finger at one side of the page.

“What? I don’t see anything.” The Emperor frowned at it. “Give me a clue. Or a psychic impression, whichever. Is his junk reflected in that shiny shield or someth-. Oh.  _ Oh. _ ”

“Yes. You know how we couldn’t track them down to do it?”

“I do.”

“You know how their First Captain - at least, the one nominated this week - gave that very, very cryptic response?”

“I had no idea what they were talking about.”

“Exactly.”

The Emperor leaned back and ran a hand over his face.

“How did they…? Are they in  _ every _ picture somewhere?”

“See for yourself.”

Alert as he now was, it took him only a few seconds to find them on every single page. Including the cover, which was entirely a digital composite.

“I mean, at least they’ve got their parts covered up,” Malcador offered, laying the calendar down. “But what do we do?”

“I’ll tell you what we do,” the Emperor said, gazing at one of the two - could be either - mooning in the back of Magnus’s shot. “We make it a competition. Whoever finds them all wins a hot tub session with the primarch of their choice. Some runners-up get signed nudes. That kind of thing.”

“Genius.” Malcador eased into a seat among the boxes, “See, this is why you’re the Ruler of Mankind.”


End file.
